fallenbrokenbleeding...but still BreaTHinG
by asheniel
Summary: Pietro angst and self-mutilation. "OnE day He feLL, He wAs bROKEn and BLEEdinG, bUt all tHaT mAtTeRED WaS thaT He wAs sTiLL BreaTHinG..." ~Psychological examination of Deliberate Self-Harm Syndrome.
1. we don't fare well with endless repriman...

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Authors Notes – I'm back with a whole new pen name and everything. This fic will be about 8 to 10 chapters, I haven't decided yet, and involves the topic of self-mutilation. If you don't like, please don't read. It won't really contain rampant description of blood or gore or anything; it's more about the psychological reasoning and effects behind the disease. Nevertheless, this'll contain angst, swearing, unpleasant topic discussion, general unhappiness, and other stuff. It also addresses a disease called Deliberate Self-Harm Syndrome, which is basically when someone has the inexplicable urge to hurt themselves, whether that would be in the form of cutting, burning, breaking bones, etc. I've been wanting to write something like this for a while now, but first, the research itself disturbed the hell out of me and I almost trashed the whole idea because it's sort of like, it's none of my business because I myself have never been victim to severe trauma or anything. I mean, _I _never like it when people write about things that they don't seem to know anything about, and I don't expect anyone that's ever done this to not be slightly insulted by my open…topic…addressing. Whatever, I mean that I don't want to insult anybody by writing this in case they have ever done it. So please…don't be if you have because I'm not trying to be insensitive and all, 'whoo I want reviews so I'm going to write this!" I just sort of realized after a while that shit happens and as long as stuff like this is going on, someone should recognize it, right? So here it is. I wrote it several months ago, was told that it sucked and agreed, forgot about it, then dug it up two days and figured, hey! Why not? Therefore, this is badly written and amazingly rambly. I was told that it was boring but…I'm not going to listen to that. Anyhoo…I'm trying to make it as open and realistic as I possibly can. I have no idea when the next chapter will be out. Please give me C & C!

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fallenbrokenbleeding…but still BreaTHinG

By NHSpartanGal14

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We don't fare well with endless reprimands

We don't do well with a life served as a sentence

This won't work well if you're hell bent on your offense

I am a man who understands your reticence

~Alanis Morissette (A Man)

Chapter One ~ **_we don't fare well with endless reprimands_**

The first time I cut myself was in the sixth grade. I was eleven going on twelve and eerily pre-pubescent at the time, scared to death of anything involving blood or personal injury of a sort. I didn't even like sports as much as I should have because I was so scared of getting hurt. It's a little scary, and if you're more the 'half-full' rather than 'half-empty' kind of person, it's a little brilliant. Someone develops an addiction through a former slash current phobia. It sounds sick but fascinating at the same time, like one of those gross B-rated horror films that forever remain clichéd and predictable—it's so stupid that you're almost embarrassed to watch it, but you watch it anyway because it's too hard to get up and turn it off, or worse, you secretly _want _to watch it. I guess that's how it was for me. Not with movies—but with the whole cutting thing.

To tell the truth, I have no idea why I started. Okay, well that was a lie. My foster brother told me that if I cut in just the right spot down there, I'd get an orgasm. Not that I knew what the hell that was at the time. But I mean, I guess I always told myself that that was the only reason I started the whole big thing, and it was so easy to believe because it was so unjustifiable. It's sort of like, it's such a stupid reason that it actually makes sense because _I _was so stupid then. Does that make sense? Probably not. It used to. But when I think about now….when I really, truly, sit here on the bathroom floor with a razor in my hand and a dozen crimson slivers stretching across the lengths of my arms and think about how it all began for a simple little orgasm…well, it's pretty hard to believe myself. Someone doesn't just start slicing themselves up for something that they don't even know exists. Maybe some people do…but as ignorant and simple-minded as I was at the time, I knew that hurting myself the way I was doing wasn't normal. Or right. But then why did I keep doing it? On a skin-deep level, there just wasn't a legitimate motive behind the whole thing. Okay, you can scratch the surface and scratch some more and discover some sort of subconscience within a labyrinth of childish simplicity and inane fluff. But…until then…until I even _try_ and scratch the surface, what kind of motive is there?

Course, once in a while, it all felt like some badly manufactured puzzle—nothing would fit together where it was supposed to. But most of the time, I was just a mediocre little middle school boy trying to fit in. Sure, sometimes I would freak out and wish that things were different, but who doesn't once in a while? Who doesn't wake up every so often with a throbbing head and an insane buzzing in his ear and think, 'man, my life is _so_ fucked up!'? We've all had those days. Maybe I've had more, maybe less. Who knows. All I can say is, I didn't think myself any less ordinary than any other quasi-macho certified pretty boy of the sixth grade. And I certainly wanted nothing more than to live, be happy, be accepted.

Or maybe I did want more. Correction: I _definitely_ did want more. The trouble is, it's hard to tell what it was I wanted so badly, so badly that it drove me to this. I don't even know what I want…not then, not now. It's scary, scary, scary. I mean, I know that until I try and scratch the surface or whatever, I'll never know what I want. And ninety-nine percent of me really doesn't want to. It's scary not to know, but it'd be even scarier to. I mean, what then? Okay, I know, so I'll move on? Now that I know myself, this sick obsession will magically obliterate? No. Knowing means confrontation, and I fear confrontation more than any other thing. Confrontation with myself, my problems, Lance, Todd, Fred, whoever. Not so much Evan Daniels, and I think that was because I knew that he didn't know me any better than I did. Yeah, that's it—that's why I was never as scared of him or the X-freaks as I was of my own brothers—I knew they could never touch me and because of that I felt safe being around them. With Lance or Todd or even Fred, everything seemed clearer, more realistic, so much colder and sharper. I'm pretty sure that Lance could read me like a book if given a chance. Maybe he would want to help, but it's scary and intimidating nonetheless and the reason that I never allowed myself to be close with him, or any of them. What if they figure me out like some sort of intricate math problem, label me right or wrong, and define my worthiness by their own personal outcomes? I know I keep saying that it's scary, but there's no other way I can describe it. They would hear me out, listen to my equation, then attempt to figure me out. It just wouldn't work. Thus the reason that I don't tell anyone, don't know, and don't even want to know. 

Imagine being blindfolded your entire life, led about on a leash. You don't know what the hell is going on. You don't know when someone is going to stick out their foot, or walk you right into a wall, or _anything_ because you don't even know _who the fuck_ is leading you. You know that life's got its ups and downs, but other than that it's a dark little world for you. And then, one day, just one ordinary old day, your blindfold gets ripped off and you're blinded by light and shit and whatnot. It hurts and you could do nothing to prevent it—and suddenly you're supposed to frolic around like you were never blind, never living in darkness. And you're supposed to accept and even enjoy this newfound sight, like it was a good thing. But what would they say—God, what would they say if they know that you always had a choice? You always had a choice to remove that damn blindfold and you never did because you were scared? _What would they say?_

I guess I realize that that's what it'll come to some day. For me. I'll lose the blindfold and I'll be expected to love and live like I could always see. And I'll hate it. Heaven help me, maybe one day in the far, far future, I'll embrace it—but until then, I know I'll hate it and I probably won't last till that day, anyway. It's so scary, not knowing when you're going to _have_ to know…it's just so scary. See, cutting myself wasn't the bad part. Neither was the not knowing. It was the not knowing when I would know that was the bitch. 

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end of chapter one


	2. day after day seems like I push against ...

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Authors Notes – Hi! It actually took me less than a week to update! I'm so proud! Er…that's probably extremely sad, so anyway. Nevermind what I said about this being 8-10 chapters, it going to be like 500. Just to let you know. And also, the tense is really weird—it's in present tense, it's just that for now, he's looking back on stuff. I think in the next chapter, I'll actually make stuff happen. Who knows. On with the story!

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fallenbrokenbleeding…but still BreaTHinG

By asheniel

__

Day after day

Seems like I push against clouds

They just keep blocking out the sun

It seems since I was born

I've waken every blessed morning

Down on my luck and up against the wind

~Lori Perry (Up Against the Wind)

Chapter Two ~ **_day after day seems like I push against the clouds_**

I think I freak Todd out sometimes.

There was this one time, right after I joined the Brotherhood, when the hot water tank in our house was acting screwy and nothing would come out except cold water. Apparently, Todd had decided that he _had_ to take a shower at that exact moment in time, and thereby headed into the basement with a huge box of tools under his arm to see if he could bang stuff around enough to give him his hot water. Being the dumbass that he was, he managed to knock out all our power instead. 

And it wouldn't have been bad at all if it had been light out, you know? But unfortunately, it wasn't, but it _was_ thundering and lightning. It was just the two of us that night; Lance and Fred were both working, and I had been upstairs reading a book when all the goddamn lights in my room went out. The thunder cracked about two seconds later, following this huge blinding bolt of lightning. It was like some sort of bad horror movie. I _freaked_. 

Okay, it sounds lame, but I'm afraid of the dark. _Terrified_ of the dark. I have this whole darkness-phobia thing in my head, and when all the lights randomly go out during the middle of a massive thunderstorm, that's like my worst nightmare or something. I threw up and got all dizzy and almost passed out. It's insane. I can't even explain it—I mean, I _know_ that some psychotic ax-murderer isn't going to leap out of my closet and slit my throat every time I shut my eyes. But…all the same, it's one of those childhood fears, you know? Just like the fear of being left behind or crazy shit like that. You know nothing bad's gonna happen, but you're fuckin' terrified as hell anyway. I think the darkness-phobia thing started a little after I moved in with Lance and everyone. 

But anyway—so Todd comes up the stairs, this bewildered scowl plastered all over his face, and starts complaining about the damn power. Or something. By then, my nausea had been washed away to be replaced by hot adrenaline, and my whole body was shaking violently with anger at realizing that it had been all his fault in the first place. He came into my room and started ranting about how worthless this whole house was and that he would never be able to take his shower now. After a minute, he noticed my tight expression, and casually asked me what the hell was wrong with me. 

I flipped, to put it lightly. I mean, I _attacked_ the guy. I was just so mad, I swear I would have killed him if given the chance. It's like someone about to shoot you dead with a gun, and at the last second they throw it to the side and demand to know why the hell you're scared. For me it was, anyway. I mean, that's how much I hate the dark. 

I was all over Todd, kicking, biting, punching him; doing anything I possibly could to inflict bodily harm. Then I dragged him down the hallway and threw him down the stairs. 

It's appalling to think about. I used to think, who in their right mind would hurt another human being for no good reason? Now if I think that, I instinctively remind myself that I almost _killed _someone. I can _relate_ to those psychos you see on tv that go on killing sprees and then go kill themselves for acting so awful because I was almost one of them. 

I can't explain the feeling very well. A huge adrenaline rush, homicidal fury coursing through my whole body, and followed by the perverse pleasure I took in hurting someone, making them scream. It's goddamn sick. 

I jumped down the stairs six at a time and started thrashing on Todd some more, my anger and agitation getting in the way of my good judgment. It was weirdly erotic and the pleasure purely sexual by then. Don't get me wrong—I didn't do anything like _that_ to Todd, nor did I have any thoughts about it. It was just this feeling I had inside of me, like I'd reach an orgasm if I kept this up, if I _killed_ him. I had my hands around his throat when Fred walked in the door. Swearing loudly, he grabbed me by the nape of the neck and threw me against the wall. I blacked out immediately, and I don't remember much after that. That wasn't the only time I'd hurt one of them, but it was definitely the worst.

I'm crying just remembering it, which is weird because I never cry. Except during those times when I was a kid, when my foster dad would—

I think the only reason Lance and Fred didn't throw me out on the streets was because Mystique didn't give a shit about what I did to Todd. She needed me, so fuck the fact that I almost killed another boy, right? At the time, I didn't even really consider what I did to Todd as wrong, either—I just sort of brushed it off as his fault and that he would never mess with me again. At the same time, though, my tantrums started to become less and less frequent. I stopped cussing at them and blowing them off just to take pleasure from their anger. I think the whole subconscious thing came into effect then, and subtly too, so much so that I had no idea that I had practically ceased to speak with anyone. 

Some people might call it 'withdrawing from the world into yourself.' Meaning, I stopped taking my anger out on the people I knew and instead, turned against myself. Again.

The cutting had always been on and off. It started when I was eleven and until the time that I left my foster family. Then I quit for a while after I joined the Brotherhood; I don't know, maybe I thought that things would be different because there were new people living with me. Not really, though—my lack of self-harm instead turned me against the people that I thought were actually sort of cool.

That didn't last long, though. My tiny little hero-worship for Lance, or the little-brother affection toward Todd, or even the buddy-buddy thing with Fred—after a while, I blew it all off and started thinking more and more often, 'man, fuck these guys. They're just as bad as my old family.' So I acted like an ass to them instead. A little while after, though, I stopped talking to them completely and started cutting myself again. 

That's where I am right now. I cut myself practically every day, sometimes even twice or three times or four—all for reasons I can't explain. It like there's something dark and shitty inside of me and I have to get it out, no matter how much it may hurt in the process. I'd like to tell them, too—Lance and everybody—but I can't. We don't even speak anymore. How could I ever reveal this scary secret to these strangers that I just happen to be stuck in the same house with? I don't know them. They don't know me. Hell, they probably hate me. But I think that the worst part—the main reason that I can't tell them—is that they might actually care. About me, I mean. 

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end of chapter two


	3. day after day seems like I push against ...

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Authors Notes – Hi! It actually took me less than a week to update! I'm so proud! Er…that's probably extremely sad, so anyway. Nevermind what I said about this being 8-10 chapters, it going to be like 500. Just to let you know. And also, the tense is really weird—it's in present tense, it's just that for now, he's looking back on stuff. I think in the next chapter, I'll actually make stuff happen. Who knows. On with the story!

****

fallenbrokenbleeding…but still BreaTHinG

By asheniel

__

Day after day

Seems like I push against clouds

They just keep blocking out the sun

It seems since I was born

I've waken every blessed morning

Down on my luck and up against the wind

~Lori Perry (Up Against the Wind)

Chapter Two ~ **_day after day seems like I push against the clouds_**

I think I freak Todd out sometimes.

There was this one time, right after I joined the Brotherhood, when the hot water tank in our house was acting screwy and nothing would come out except cold water. Apparently, Todd had decided that he _had_ to take a shower at that exact moment in time, and thereby headed into the basement with a huge box of tools under his arm to see if he could bang stuff around enough to give him his hot water. Being the dumbass that he was, he managed to knock out all our power instead. 

And it wouldn't have been bad at all if it had been light out, you know? But unfortunately, it wasn't, but it _was_ thundering and lightning. It was just the two of us that night; Lance and Fred were both working, and I had been upstairs reading a book when all the goddamn lights in my room went out. The thunder cracked about two seconds later, following this huge blinding bolt of lightning. It was like some sort of bad horror movie. I _freaked_. 

Okay, it sounds lame, but I'm afraid of the dark. _Terrified_ of the dark. I have this whole darkness-phobia thing in my head, and when all the lights randomly go out during the middle of a massive thunderstorm, that's like my worst nightmare or something. I threw up and got all dizzy and almost passed out. It's insane. I can't even explain it—I mean, I _know_ that some psychotic ax-murderer isn't going to leap out of my closet and slit my throat every time I shut my eyes. But…all the same, it's one of those childhood fears, you know? Just like the fear of being left behind or crazy shit like that. You know nothing bad's gonna happen, but you're fuckin' terrified as hell anyway. I think the darkness-phobia thing started a little after I moved in with Lance and everyone. 

But anyway—so Todd comes up the stairs, this bewildered scowl plastered all over his face, and starts complaining about the damn power. Or something. By then, my nausea had been washed away to be replaced by hot adrenaline, and my whole body was shaking violently with anger at realizing that it had been all his fault in the first place. He came into my room and started ranting about how worthless this whole house was and that he would never be able to take his shower now. After a minute, he noticed my tight expression, and casually asked me what the hell was wrong with me. 

I flipped, to put it lightly. I mean, I _attacked_ the guy. I was just so mad, I swear I would have killed him if given the chance. It's like someone about to shoot you dead with a gun, and at the last second they throw it to the side and demand to know why the hell you're scared. For me it was, anyway. I mean, that's how much I hate the dark. 

I was all over Todd, kicking, biting, punching him; doing anything I possibly could to inflict bodily harm. Then I dragged him down the hallway and threw him down the stairs. 

It's appalling to think about. I used to think, who in their right mind would hurt another human being for no good reason? Now if I think that, I instinctively remind myself that I almost _killed _someone. I can _relate_ to those psychos you see on tv that go on killing sprees and then go kill themselves for acting so awful because I was almost one of them. 

I can't explain the feeling very well. A huge adrenaline rush, homicidal fury coursing through my whole body, and followed by the perverse pleasure I took in hurting someone, making them scream. It's goddamn sick. 

I jumped down the stairs six at a time and started thrashing on Todd some more, my anger and agitation getting in the way of my good judgment. It was weirdly erotic and the pleasure purely sexual by then. Don't get me wrong—I didn't do anything like _that_ to Todd, nor did I have any thoughts about it. It was just this feeling I had inside of me, like I'd reach an orgasm if I kept this up, if I _killed_ him. I had my hands around his throat when Fred walked in the door. Swearing loudly, he grabbed me by the nape of the neck and threw me against the wall. I blacked out immediately, and I don't remember much after that. That wasn't the only time I'd hurt one of them, but it was definitely the worst.

I'm crying just remembering it, which is weird because I never cry. Except during those times when I was a kid, when my foster dad would—

I think the only reason Lance and Fred didn't throw me out on the streets was because Mystique didn't give a shit about what I did to Todd. She needed me, so fuck the fact that I almost killed another boy, right? At the time, I didn't even really consider what I did to Todd as wrong, either—I just sort of brushed it off as his fault and that he would never mess with me again. At the same time, though, my tantrums started to become less and less frequent. I stopped cussing at them and blowing them off just to take pleasure from their anger. I think the whole subconscious thing came into effect then, and subtly too, so much so that I had no idea that I had practically ceased to speak with anyone. 

Some people might call it 'withdrawing from the world into yourself.' Meaning, I stopped taking my anger out on the people I knew and instead, turned against myself. Again.

The cutting had always been on and off. It started when I was eleven and until the time that I left my foster family. Then I quit for a while after I joined the Brotherhood; I don't know, maybe I thought that things would be different because there were new people living with me. Not really, though—my lack of self-harm instead turned me against the people that I thought were actually sort of cool.

That didn't last long, though. My tiny little hero-worship for Lance, or the little-brother affection toward Todd, or even the buddy-buddy thing with Fred—after a while, I blew it all off and started thinking more and more often, 'man, fuck these guys. They're just as bad as my old family.' So I acted like an ass to them instead. A little while after, though, I stopped talking to them completely and started cutting myself again. 

That's where I am right now. I cut myself practically every day, sometimes even twice or three times or four—all for reasons I can't explain. It like there's something dark and shitty inside of me and I have to get it out, no matter how much it may hurt in the process. I'd like to tell them, too—Lance and everybody—but I can't. We don't even speak anymore. How could I ever reveal this scary secret to these strangers that I just happen to be stuck in the same house with? I don't know them. They don't know me. Hell, they probably hate me. But I think that the worst part—the main reason that I can't tell them—is that they might actually care. About me, I mean. 

****

end of chapter two


End file.
